


The Tale of the Champion

by Flutiebear



Series: Free As We'll Ever Be [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Humor, Fluff, M/M, Post-Game, The Tale of the Champion, Wycome, unreliable narrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:55:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/pseuds/Flutiebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While hiding out in Wycome, Anders and Garrett find a copy of Varric's latest serial--and the story is disturbingly familiar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tale of the Champion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jkateel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jkateel/gifts).



“Five coppers left,” sighed Anders. “Should it be bread or peaches?” 

Garrett hummed noncommittally, his attention caught by the nearby stand of a bookseller, who had spread her wares out in the summer sun like so many freshly-caught fish. 

“The smart choice would be bread, of course,” continued Anders, holding up a slightly bruised peach for inspection. He wrinkled his nose and replaced the fruit for another. “But you’re looking a little scurvy, and not in a manner which Isabela might appreciate, if you catch my drift. And I daresay I’m not looking much better. Three weeks straight of roots and acorns does little for one’s romantically roguish complexion. What do you think? Garrett?” 

But Garrett gave no indication he’d heard Anders’ prattle at all; instead, he’d since drifted over to the far corner of the book display, where he now hovered like a plaintive ghost. Anders put the fruit back with no small regret, and returned to his companion’s side. 

“You know you can’t eat books,” he said, because Garrett looked like he might need the reminder. 

“Look,” replied Garrett eventually. “It’s a Tethras.” 

Anders followed Garrett’s gaze to an obscenely fat hardback, left deliberately and eye-catchingly askance, like an Orlesian noble at his leisure. Stamped on the front cover was a large--and all things considering, thought Anders, quite ironic--Chantry sunburst. 

Anders released a long, low breath, his peaches quite forgotten. 

Together they stood in silence, mouths grim, watching the offending tome as if it were a funeral pyre.

“ _The Tale of the Champion_ ,” Garrett read in a dull voice. He ran a finger lightly along the edge of the sunburst, and the corner of his mouth twitched faintly. “A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps _Teatime with the Arishok_ was already taken,” offered Anders. 

The bookseller, a youngish woman with a wispy chignon and ink-stained fingers, meandered towards them. “That’s a good one, serrah,” she chirped, clearly delighted by their interest. “One of our best sellers.” 

Garrett smiled but did not look up at her, and Anders decided it would likely be left to him to carry the bulk of any conversation. 

“So what does Wycome want with Kirkwaller serials?” he said, deploying his most romantically roguish smirk, in the hopes of distracting her from the fact that Garrett still stared at the book as if it had insulted his mother. “Don’t you have much naughtier pulp shipped in daily from Antiva?” 

“It isn’t smut, serrah,” she said, frowning earnestly. “It’s history.”

“Of a sort,” muttered Garrett.

“Oh, but don’t think that means it’s dull,” she continued, evidently mistaking Garrett’s foul expression for literary distaste. “ _The Tale of the Champion_ has everything: battles, monsters, intrigue, romance. It’s a real page turner. In my opinion, it’s Tethas’s finest work yet.” 

“Better than _Swords and Shields_?” Out of habit, Anders glanced over his shoulder; he half-expected to see an angry red-headed woman storming out of the shadows to arrest him. “Quite a gripping romance, that one.” 

Though the bookseller couldn’t have possibly been in on the joke, she smiled charitably at it anyway. “ _The Tale of the Champion_ makes _Swords and Shields_ look like _The Guerrins of Ferelden_.” 

“Is that so?” said Garrett. His voice was so soft Anders almost hadn’t heard it. “Tell me then. How does it end?”

The bookseller laughed. “Well, serrah. You’ll just have to read and find out.”

With a predatory flash of teeth, she held out an open palm. 

Garrett looked expectantly at Anders, who heaved a great, put-upon sigh and handed over the last of their coppers. 

“I suppose I hate peaches anyway,” he muttered. 

***

“Listen to this: ‘No mage I know has ever dared to fall in love. This is the rule I will most cherish breaking.’” Garrett grimaced, leaning back against the barn wall. “Oh Maker, he’s bad at this.”

“Come now. Varric’s writing isn’t _that_ awful,” said Anders, shrugging off his outer coat. He laid it gently on one of the nearby straw pallets, one blessedly free of cow dung, and frowned petulantly at a tear in the sleeve. So flimsy, this fabric. Couldn’t even weather a few months of desolate fugitivity. Though perhaps a little fraying was only to be expected; he hadn’t exactly intended the coat to be a long-term fashion statement. “And it’s true. Prior to meeting you, I hadn’t known any mages in love. Not really.” 

“What about you and Karl?”

Anders shrugged. “I was seventeen years his junior and made a hobby of dangling myself out of the tallest windows I could find. What did I know of love, or how to share it?” 

“Still.” Garrett clapped the book closed and fixed it with a sour look. “You have to admit it’s all rather preposterous. It doesn’t even sound like us.” 

“I don’t know.” Anders scratched his chin thoughtfully. “It sounds a _little_ like us.”

Garrett cocked an eyebrow. 

“‘Want a sandwich?’” Anders quoted helpfully.

“It’s not my fault your ribs poked through your coat,” said Garrett peevishly. 

Anders offered a polite smirk and fell to the straw next to Garrett. “Why does this bother you so much?”

A muscle in Garrett’s jaw popped dangerously. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Love, you’ve been reading me lines I might’ve said for three hours straight. Varric’s a good writer, yes, but I worry you’re starting to develop unrealistic expectations.” Anders placed a hand gently on Garrett’s knee. “So what is this really about?” 

Garrett stared balefully at a nearby pile of straw, as if it might ignite any minute.

“It’s my life, Anders. Our lives.” He sighed. “And he put it all on display, used it as kindling for his--his-- _patriotism porn_.” 

“Not all of it,” corrected Anders. “He didn’t mention your mother. Or your sister.”

Garrett snorted. “Only so that Carver and I could apparently slaughter half the Darkspawn horde by ourselves before we ever made it out of Lothering. Maker, Carver and I can’t even bake a cake together without bloody noses all around.” He tossed the book aside as if it had burned him. “I thought he was my friend.”

“He is, love. And he did you a favor.” Garrett made a face, but Anders continued undaunted. “Everyone will be so busy looking for this dashing Hawke fellow that the real Garrett will slip by entirely undetected.”

“I… suppose,” said Garrett, somewhat mollified. “I only wish--I mean, is this how Varric really saw me?” He turned to Anders, eyes drawn and serious. “How _you_ saw me?”

“You mean as a boorish cad with a taste for the taint? Of course.” 

“You know what I mean.”

Anders rested a hand on Garrett’s jaw and rubbed one calloused thumb along the coarse beard, a move so practiced, so familiar, he was sometimes surprised he hadn’t yet worn a track in the man’s cheekbone. 

“You sell yourself short, Garrett. But no.” He smiled warmly. “I have always thought that the man was--is--so much better than the Champion.” 

Garrett relaxed into Anders’ hand. “And my jokes are better too, right?”

Anders did not reply, but gave Garrett a very diplomatic kiss instead.


End file.
